


The Bauble

by Scriblit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriblit/pseuds/Scriblit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BBC Sherlock reworking of The Blue Carbuncle. Set after the return of Sherlock (But written before Empty Hearse was on, so it veers from the S3 canon). It's Christmas, and Sherlock & John are sent on a literal Goose Chase around London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

THE BAUBLE

Chapter 1

-x-

23/12 10.35  
Last Christmas  
I gave you my phone  
But the very next breath,  
I faked my own death.  
(faked my own death)  
This year, to save me from tears  
Please keep my phone somewhere special  
(special)

23/12 11.13  
Although technically, that wasn’t last year, was it.  
Three years, now! See – I’m keeping count.  
Good to see in the news you’re back.  
Faking your death to escape – where DID you get that idea?

23/12 11.45  
That was your now traditional annual address, BTW.  
In case you were wondering.  
Merry Christmas, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

23/12 11.49  
And also to you.  
SH

-x-

John returned from the Big Christmas Tesco Run From Hell just after noon to discover several curious things about his flat.

1, The tree was up, and dressed.  
2, So was his flatmate.  
3, His flatmate was balancing a pair of too-big spectacles on his nose, like a small child set loose in Vision Express.  
4, The sofa was almost completely filled with a large West Indian man in his 50s.  
5, The bits of sofa not taken up by said gentleman were occupied by an 18lb goose, its head flopping lifelessly on the armrest and gazing glassily out in his general direction.

He gave the occupants of his living room the cheeriest smile that he could, being weighed down with several days worth of indulgent groceries.

‘Afternoon.’

‘John!’ Sherlock whipped the glasses from his nose. ‘You remember Clarence Peterson – the Security Guard from the Hilton case?’

‘Of course.’ John hefted the first armfuls of shopping over towards the kitchen. ‘How’s things, Clarence? And isn’t anybody going to introduce me to your friend?’

‘I’m well,’ said Clarence, ‘which is more than I can say for Mister Goose.’

‘What is it, then,’ said John, ‘is Sherlock going to find out who murdered the goose?’ He put the kettle on. ‘Would you like a cuppa, Clarence?’

‘Sherlock already made me a cup of tea,’ Clarence told him, lifting his mug.

John frowned, and blinked.

‘Clarence was just explaining to me why he called round,’ added Sherlock, taking a sip from his own cup. ‘Clarence, would you mind summing things up for John, so he can get up to speed – if that’s at all possible?’

‘Last night,’ explained Clarence, ‘at about 10.30, I was walking home from my shift and I heard raised voices outside the Albion on Wimpole St. I turned the corner and I saw a gang of kids surrounding an elderly gentleman.’

‘A mugging?’ asked John.

Clarence shook his head. ‘They weren’t armed, they were just being little monsters. The old man was drunk. And he was carrying this.’ He indicated to the goose. ‘They were trying to get it off him. He pushed one of them – the kid took out a car’s wing mirror by accident on the way down, and, that must have panicked him because when I shouted at the kids to stop it, he ran away as well. Dropped the goose and his spectacles.’

Sherlock helpfully held up the glasses he’d been wearing when John had come in.

‘So…’ John added milk to his tea. ‘Sorry, where do we come in to this?’ He met eyes with Sherlock. ‘Is this linked to a murder, or a kidnapping…? Jewel theft, bank heist…?’

Clarence frowned, uncomfortably. ‘Um. Well… the old man wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just attacked by those bloody kids. And the goose would have cost him a lot of money… they’re expensive spectacles too, and he’ll be needing them. So…’

‘Clarence has asked me to reunite the mystery victim’s lost property with their rightful owner,’ said Sherlock, ‘and I have accepted the case.’

‘I only asked if Sherlock might have an idea of how to find him,’ added Clarence. ‘I would have thought that giving an old man back his glasses and Christmas Dinner would be far beneath such a famous…’

Sherlock waved his hands, dismissively. ‘Any favour, that’s what we said. Any favour in return for the information you gave us. Without it, the Hilton case might have fallen through.’

‘You really don’t need to sort out lost property, Sherlock,’ argued Clarence. ‘And at Christmas and everything…’

‘Exactly! It’s Christmas. Other people amuse themselves with trifling little puzzles at Christmas – why not me? These glasses are my Festive Bumper Crossword Book.’ He inspected them again as John started fitting the frozen goods into the freezer. ‘You’re right about them being expensive, Clarence – must have set him back a fair amount, but that was around ten years ago. They’re in a poor state of repair, too. He fixed one of the arms himself last year – clumsily at that. Didn’t replace them. Once wealthy, fallen on hard times of late, then. Possibly down to the booze. He’s an academic. His head’s huge!’

Sherlock put the ill-fitting glasses on again. They immediately slipped down to the end of his nose.

‘Uses Head & Shoulders,’ added Sherlock. ‘I can smell it on the arms. ‘Doesn’t have a dandruff problem, though. Likely, his wife does and he shares her shampoo.’

‘How do you know it’s his wife?’ asked John.

‘Oh,’ sighed Sherlock, dismissively, ‘it’s on the tag.’

‘The tag?’

‘On the goose’s leg. “For Mr & Mrs Baker”.’

John shook his head, faintly. ‘All that about shampoo and his name’s written on the bloody goose.’

‘Oh, yes, of course, John. Let’s phone up the only Mr & Mrs Baker in London and tell them that we’ve got their Christmas dinner. Case solved.’

‘Or,’ said John, ‘you could do what normal people do when they come across lost property – put a small ad in the Chronicle.’

Sherlock deflated. ‘Boring.’

‘Practical, Sherlock. Much more so than stalking the nearby pubs for a giant headed academic alcoholic who’s down on his luck, smells of dandruff shampoo and keeps bumping into things.’

‘Oh, fine.’ Sherlock took the glasses off again, sharply. ‘Have no fear, Clarence, I’ll see to it that Mr Baker gets his glasses back.’

Clarence beamed. ‘Thank you, Sherlock! Er. And what about the goose…?’

‘Oh, that thing’ll never keep. You take it.’

‘Really?’

‘The two of us are hardly going to be able to eat it, now are we? You’ve got all those children and grandchildren. A Christmas feast! Besides.’ Sherlock leaned forward and gave the bird a sniff. ‘If it stays out of a fridge for much longer, nobody will be able to eat it at all, and wasted food in this day and age is such a crime. We’ll never fit it in ours.’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ shouted John from the fridge in question, ‘if you must keep your testicles in the fridge, would you at least put them on your own shelf?’

‘But the bottom shelf is where you’re supposed to put raw meat,’ called Sherlock, before turning to Clarence and conspiratorially adding ‘see what I mean?’

John pulled out the offending body parts in question. ‘I’m not keeping our mince next to these. And this is my Tupperware box! You owe me new Tupperware.’

Clarence got to his feet, lugging the massive bird with him. ‘I’ll, er. Leave you two to it. Thank you again, Sherlock.’

Clarence left 221b Baker St as the detective and his flatmate quibbled over the fridge contents and why John Watson had bought shop brand cornflakes instead of Kellogg’s. He thought about the old man’s relief at getting his expensive glasses back, and his own family’s delight at the lavish Christmas dinner they’d be getting this year. What very nice things of Sherlock Holmes to do.

And there people were saying he’d come back out of hiding all strange. What did they know? He seemed just fine to Clarence.

-x-

LOST AND FOUND:

MR BAKER I HAVE YOUR SPECTACLES  
Retrieved the night of 22nd Dec outside Albion Inn  
Please collect from 221b Baker St W1  
S Holmes (not dead, in case you haven’t caught up with the news of late)

-x-

‘Hurmm,’ said John, at his laptop.

‘Hmm?’ said Sherlock, at his.

‘How do you fancy making us half a million quid?’

‘Oh, what would I even want with half a million quid?’

John looked up. ‘Sherlock, for the last time, take those glasses off. And what you’d want with half a million quid would be the prestige of earning half a million quid in one go just for being incredibly clever. High profile case, too – be just the thing to finally quieten the naysayers.’

Sherlock groaned. ‘If demolishing the Moriarty Syndicate and very publically putting Moran behind bars isn’t going to quieten them, what will?’

‘Oh, I dunno. Finding Duchess’ stolen Morcar Blue Diamond and getting the million pound reward, perhaps?’

‘Who on Earth is “Duchess”?’

‘Oh, you must know who she is, Sherlock. Even you can’t be so dense about popular culture.’

Sherlock switched to Google. ‘Oh,’ he said in distaste. ‘Pop singer. Love of awful men, little yappy dogs and gaudy jewellery. One of which went missing the day before yesterday. Well, serves her right for leaving it lying around. So – I’m terribly clever, find milady’s bling and, if most of Scotland Yard have anything to do with it, probably get arrested for stealing it in the first place… oh, wait.’

‘They’ve already arrested someone,’ said John, pleased to be ahead of Sherlock for once, even if it was just in reading the same article, ‘but he’s denying all knowledge. Not saying where it is.’

‘Because he doesn’t know,’ said Sherlock with a frown. ‘No, no, no, this is all wrong.’ He took out his phone and started texting. ‘Let’s see what Greg has to say about this.’

‘Finally calling him Greg?’

‘Spent nearly three years dead to spare him a bullet to the brain. Think that probably puts us on first name terms, now.’ Sherlock sent the message and went back to searching for other articles on the stolen jewel story.

John looked across at his friend, who still had the big glasses perched ridiculously at the end of his nose. John could see no reason for Sherlock to do this other than to try to make him laugh. He fought off a smile. He still hadn’t officially forgiven Sherlock for the bollocks in the Tupperware.

‘Mrs Hudson surpassed herself with the tree,’ he said, conversationally.

‘No, she didn’t.’

‘I like it!’

‘I should think so, too. But she didn’t have anything to do with it.’

John did smile, now. Incredulously. ‘You put the tree up.’

Sherlock caught his eye. ‘Stranger things have happened, you know.’

‘No, no. It’s fine.’ John shook his head. ‘You put up a Christmas tree.’

‘What?’

‘Just… mental images. You weren’t wearing a Val Doonican jumper at the time, were you?’

‘No, John, I was not wearing one of your jumpers.’

‘How do you know who Val Doonican is, but not one of the most famous pop singers on the planet?’

Before Sherlock could answer, Clarence Peterson burst back into the flat.

Both inhabitants of 221b were swiftly on their feet.

‘Clarence,’ said Sherlock. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘The goose,’ gasped Clarence. ‘The goose I found…’

‘What was wrong with it?’ asked John. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, I’m alright,’ Clarence replied. ‘And the goose, well… it’s just… Hope decided to pluck and prepare it straight away, so it would fit in the fridge. Asked me to cut off its head and feet.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Not every day you take a butcher’s knife to a bird and it spits out a bloody sapphire the size of a baby’s fist at you.’


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

With faintly trembling hands, he took a bloody tissue from his inside pocket and unwrapped it. Sherlock and John leaned in to get a proper look. Inside the tissue, a pale blue jewel, around the size of a peach stone, glimmered through the gore.

Not a sapphire.

The Morcar Blue Diamond.

Sherlock straightened up, making a show of dusting off his hands. ‘Well, that’s that. Another mystery solved. Didn’t even feel like I was doing anything, this time. Aren’t I clever?’

‘What?’ asked Clarence.

‘Sherlock, you _didn’t_ do anything! Unless you’ve now found so many important stolen objects that you’ve managed to create some sort of invisible homing signal for any others that get lost to just sort-of gravitate towards you of their own accord. Because, I mean… what are the odds?’

‘The odds of what?’ Poor Clarence was left completely floundering.

‘It’s a diamond,’ John explained. ‘Stolen from Duchess' hotel suite yesterday. You know – the singer?’

‘Duchess?’ Clarence blinked. ‘Of course I know her, my daughter loves her… do you think… since I found it, you know, I might be able to see if Letitia could meet her?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Sherlock, taking the diamond from the tissue and giving it the once-over. ‘She’ll probably want to make a big PR stunt of the reward.’

‘There’s a reward?’

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock. ‘If I were you, I’d start thinking about the wisest ways to invest £500,000.’

Clarence took a sudden step back, and crashed into a chair. ‘Five hundred thousand?’

‘Could I just keep hold of this for a little while, though?’ asked Sherlock, indicating to the diamond in his hand.

‘Five hundred thousand.’

‘And could you not mention anything about it? Just for a couple of days, or so.’

‘Five hundred thousand.’

Sherlock plopped back down into the sofa and opened up his laptop. ‘Clarence. This is important. They’ve arrested the wrong man for stealing this, and I’m going to need to keep it hidden to flush the real thief out.’

Clarence looked up. ‘Of course. Of course. If you’re sure.’

‘Ah, good. The Lost & Found ad’s already up on the Chronicle’s website. Baker might have seen it already – it all depends on how desperately he’s searching. How badly does he want to find the things he lost outside the Albion? Might not want to face me, if he remembers what I do from the media storm, he ran away from a Security Guard. Might attempt a break-in. Force. That’d be fun to watch, at least. Still.’ He checked his watch. ‘Five to four. John.’ He threw his credit card at his friend, who just about managed to catch it before it was lost to the mayhem of a box on the floor containing Sherlock’s “files”. ‘There’s a good butcher’s on Holland Park Avenue. Nip over and get us a whole goose, as close to the size of the one Clarence found as possible.’

‘Aren’t you going to fling open the window and shout down to me asking what day it is today first?’

‘December 23rd, John. I checked today and everything.’

‘No, I mean… putting up a tree. Buying a goose. All this niceness. You were visited by three ghosts last night. Weren’t you?’

‘John, what on Earth are you talking about?’

‘You don’t know A Christmas Carol.’ John shook his head. ‘It’s the greatest Christmas Story ever told.’

‘Blasphemy, John! We both know that that’s Die Hard.’

Sherlock’s phone started to ring.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ Sherlock answered the call, pacing the living room as he spoke. ‘Greg! Thanks for calling. Listen… Yes, I am. No, I’ve been calling you that ever since I got back. Well, I must have been calling you it in my head, then, but I do… well, you don’t call me “Holmes”, do you…? It just puts us on an even level of familiarity, doesn’t it, it’s not like I want us to start picking out curtains or anything… oh, don’t flatter yourself. Listen, this is important. I wanted to speak with you about the arrest over that pop singer’s diamond. Wayne Horner. Yes, that’s him…’

‘Come on,’ muttered John to Clarence, ‘we can share a cab as far as Notting Hill Gate station. You go home, enjoy your Christmas, enjoy your goose, and we’ll get in touch about the diamond as soon as Sherlock’s done with it.’

Clarence nodded, as John ushered him towards the door. ‘If I can ask, though – how does Sherlock know it’s the wrong man that’s been arrested?’

John just shrugged. ‘He’s Sherlock,’ he said, after a moment. ‘He just always knows.’

-x-

‘Coo-coo! Not interrupting anything, am I…?’

‘No, it’s fine, come in.’

‘Oh. I thought you had a visitor.’

‘No, not yet. Was I talking to myself out loud, again?’

‘You were doing funny voices and everything!’

‘A habit I fell into while I was away, I’m afraid. It’ll pass.’

‘Ooh, you do make me laugh. Anyway, I thought I’d bring up some of my mince pies. I know how much you liked them last year… not last year. Sorry. I mean, the last year you were here.’

‘It’s all right. Thank you!’

‘You’re coming downstairs for dinner on the day, aren’t you? I’ve got us a lovely rack of lamb, and Vienetta for afters – your favourite.’

‘Sounds splendid. And you’re coming upstairs for drinks in the evening, I take it?’

‘Oh, are you having another soiree, this year? Oh, well of course. And hopefully it won’t be cut short, this time. No more girlfriends in the woodwork waiting til Christmas Day to fake their death? Honestly, Sherlock, you do know how to pick them.’

‘She wasn’t my girlfriend. Doorbell, Mrs Hudson.’

‘She was a bad influence, that’s what she was.’

‘Doorbell.’

-x-

John got back a little after five with the goose. He heard Lestrade’s voice coming from the living room as he climbed the stairs, and was just trying to think of something witty to say about the bird when he pushed open the door and stopped, tensing.

‘Oh.’

Three people looked up at him from their seats – Sherlock, Lestrade and Sally Donovan.

‘All right?’ asked Donovan in that quiet, defensive charade of casual conversation put on by people who are very aware that their presence is far from welcome.

‘Well, you’ve certainly got a lot of bloody nerve, coming here,’ John told Donovan. ‘Although, I suppose that’s probably considered a desirable quality in a copper – more so than loyalty and having the sense not to let some maniac with a grudge use your own stupid petty, personal grievances…’

‘John,’ interjected Sherlock.

‘What is she doing here?’ John shouted. ‘After what she did to you, and to me… after what she did to you, Greg…’

John tried to point to Lestrade, and realised he still had a 16 pound piece of dead poultry in his hand.

‘Me and Sally have made our peace,’ Greg told him. ‘She’s still one of the best coppers I know, which is why I asked her to come back to my division.’

‘Ha.’ John went to the kitchen to set the bird down in what he hoped was a dramatically angry fashion, but realised probably just looked rather ridiculous.

‘In any case,’ said Sherlock, ‘Sally’s return to the fold has, at least, given her a little more insight into her legacy.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about the way things happened,’ Donovan said. ‘I told you I was. I didn’t know it would end up like that.’

Sherlock scrubbed at his hair. ‘All these apologies, confessions, acts of penance. It’s like being a Priest all over again.’

John opened his mouth to clarify that Sherlock had never been an actual Priest, but decided that that would sound even worse and stayed quiet.

‘Really,’ Sherlock continued, ‘there’s nothing to absolve, Sally. If it hadn’t have been you, it would have been some other idiotic pawn. Moriarty was going to make it happen, with or without you. Not that that will stop you in your latest act of atonement – you always were a stubborn one.’

‘This is about Wayne,’ replied Donovan, ‘not you.’

‘A framed man with a criminal record – fits the basic profile – thrown by the real villain of the piece to overzealous Police keen to make a swift, impressive arrest without thinking things through, and suddenly you care desperately about his freedom? This is no ironic twist of fate, Sally. You’re overcompensating. This may be about Wayne Horner, but it’s also about you, and me, and your boss, and your guilt, and everybody knows it.’

‘Play nicely, children,’ warned Lestrade.

‘You know about Horner?’ John asked, warily.

‘Mm.’ Sherlock sat back. ‘When I spoke with Greg earlier, he did say that one of his officers was already fighting the Horner Corner.’

‘I also warned you that neither of you were going to like it,’ added Lestrade.

‘Can I have one of those mince pies?’ asked Donovan, ‘or are they for the non-black-sheep of the room only?’

‘Help yourself,’ Sherlock told her. ‘They’re not even poisoned.’

Donovan reached for a pie. ‘It’s not about you, Sherlock. Me and Wayne go back years. I used to mentor him, back when I was starting out. He’d just come out of the Young Offenders Centre.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s not a bad person. He was just a bit of a chancer, fell in with a bad crowd. It was all just petty stuff, really. And then, he met this girl – Mel. Head over heels.’ Sally smiled to herself. ‘And she wasn’t taking any shit. He straightened up. Trained as a plumber, got married, started a family… never looked back. And he would never. Not even with some ugly great rock worth millions staring him straight in the face in an empty room - he would never go back. He’d see it as betraying Mel and the kids. He wouldn’t!’

‘And you’ve told the lot who’ve arrested him this?’ John asked.

‘Til she was blue in the face,’ Lestrade told him.

Sally scoffed. ‘Yeah, well. With them lot, I think a blue face might have gone down a bit better than a Brown one.’

‘Well, can’t you say something then?’ John asked Lestrade.

Lestrade huffed a grim approximation of a laugh. ‘They may be Racist dickheads over there, but that’s only a part of the problem. It’s not just Sally’s skin they don’t care for. It’s her boss, as well. Whole bleeding department.’

‘Other departments tend not to listen to us, nowadays,’ added Donovan. ‘And Moran arrest or not, going up to them and telling them to let Wayne go because Sherlock Holmes says so, without any concrete evidence, is only going to make it worse.’

‘Jim’s ghost,’ said Sherlock, with an odd smile, ‘still whispering. That idea, planted so firmly in their simple little minds – Sherlock Holmes is a pollution. Sherlock Holmes corrupts. Infects. Has infected everybody in this room. See, Sally?’ he added, brightly. ‘This is about penance. You’ve come to live in the shadow of the dark cloud that you helped to cast.’

‘I really like how I came here to try to get Wayne freed and we all just ended up sitting around talking about you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I take it he has no alibi.’

‘He was fixing a leak in Duchess' penthouse while she was out doing an interview. Only a little job. He was alone there for about 20 minutes. He says he didn’t even know the diamond was in there.’

‘Had he done work for the hotel before?’

‘Yeah, he’s on their books. He’s dirt cheap, because of his convictions. Always the way, isn’t it? Swankier the hotel, the less they’re prepared to actually pay their staff.’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock pressed his palms together. ‘Forward me over all the statements on the theft that you can get your hands on. I’ve got some other lines of enquiry I’d like to look into, as well.’

Sally nodded, and got to her feet.

‘How old are his kids?’ added Sherlock.

‘Four and six.’

‘I see. If there’s proof of his innocence to be had – and there must be – I’ll have it before Christmas morning.’

‘Bloody Hell,’ muttered Sally, ‘what are you now – Santa’s Little Helper?’

‘Off you trot.’ Sherlock waved his hands at her. ‘Oh – Greg, while you’re here, might I have a word?’

‘I’ll meet you outside,’ Lestrade told Donovan.

John saw her out.

‘He’s cheerful,’ Donovan noted, ‘isn’t he? Has he been like that ever since getting back, or is this just a miracle of the season?’

‘You know what,’ John replied quietly, ‘when I was in Afghanistan, we could have the hardest nuts find out they were getting to go home for Christmas, and go as giddy as little kids. It just does something to people, especially if they’ve been away for a long time. And you certainly don’t have any right to poke fun. Not now.’

‘I wasn’t making fun.’ Donovan paused. ‘It’s just that… well. He used to have lots of good days like that, back when he first started working with us. He’d be cheerful, easy going – we used to look forward to his good days. Then he came in having such a good day that he wouldn’t stop giggling, and then he threw a fit and we had to call him an ambulance. Turned out, those “good days” were the times when he was “self medicating”.’ Donovan provided the quotation marks with her fingers. ‘Very nearly self medicated himself to death.’

‘Yes, well. No offence, but I think we’ve all had enough of your advice to last a lifetime.’

Sally held up her hands. ‘Just trying to be helpful. Merry Christmas.’

‘Yeah. You too. If you were waiting for a kiss under the mistletoe, I’m afraid you’ve got another think coming.’

‘I'm sure I’ll live.’

-x-

‘So, what is it?’

‘Drinks. Christmas Day – from 6 onwards. Don’t say you’re busy. I know you’re not. Divorce finally went through in October, didn’t it?’

‘Sherlock…’

‘Molly Hooper will be there.’

‘We’re not 14. You don’t have to entice your mates round with the promise of girls.’

‘…mates?’

‘Yes, you great ponce. Mates. And, yeah, I’ll come over. Hopefully this year won’t end up quite so Christmas-In-Albert-Square.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘No more psychotic girlfriends on mortuary slabs.’

‘Oh, would people stop going on about that? You’d think it was the only thing that had ever happened at Christmas. And she wasn’t my girlfriend.’

‘Whatever you say, Sherlock.’

‘She wasn’t! John was very particular about that in his blog.’

‘Good luck with the Horner case. You say Molly will definitely be there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well. I’ll see you then, then.’

‘Greg?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t get me gin, again. If you’re going to get me alcohol, a good brandy or vodka would be preferable.’

‘I’m not getting you booze, Sherlock.’

‘You always get me booze.’

‘Yes, but whatever it is you came back addicted to, Sherlock, I don’t think you should mix it with anything. See you.’


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John passed Lestrade on the stairs, but was still able to hear muttering coming from the flat above as he approached. He found his flatmate talking nonsensically to himself, brewing a fresh pot of tea.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Hmm? Oh. Yes. Tea?’

‘Cheers.’ John opened up the already rather full fridge and tried to work out the logistics of fitting a massive goose inside. ‘Is it me, or are you making a lot more tea than you used to?’

‘I am capable of simple domestic tasks, John. Pass the milk.’

John did so, squinting at the insides of the fridge. ‘This isn’t going to work. Sherlock, I’m going to have to take your testicles out.’

‘But John, I…’

‘It’s goose or balls, Sherlock, you’re not having both. There isn’t room.’

‘Well, maybe we’d have room if you hadn’t got such an unnecessary amount of milk.’ Sherlock sloshed the 6 pint bottle at him, accusatorially. ‘The shops are only going to be shut for a day – why do the British always respond to the slightest potential change of routine by panic-buying all the milk and bread?’

‘Genetic memory,’ John replied. ‘All goes back to 1066, when the invading Normans arrived on the backs of giant Battle Hedgehogs.’

Sherlock giggled down at the teapot.

‘Ever since then, as soon as there’s the first rumblings of a potential crisis, the British stock up on everything we’ll need to appease our new, prickly overlords.’ John smiled over at Sherlock. ‘Are you all right, Sherlock?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I noticed you got Her phone out again, today. You’re not thinking about… you know?’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, that was years ago. You lot are obsessed.’ Sherlock left the teapot and stalked off to poke at an ongoing experiment on a side table in the living room. ‘Water under the bridge. A veritable torrent, under the bridge. I’m fine. Really. Stop playing with my testicles, John.’

John lowered his hand from where he had done what any ordinary bloke would do when presented with a box full of testicles – which was, to scoop two out, cup them in front of his own crotch & compare. ‘I wasn’t!’

‘I can see you in the mir-ror.’

John blinked, and frowned. There was something about the sing-song way Sherlock had just addressed him that sent a shiver up his spine.

‘What was that?’

‘I can see you in the mirror, I said,’ replied Sherlock, in more of his normal tone.

John still frowned, perturbed. ‘I know you’re back on the ciggies, Sherlock. Everyone does, and who can blame you? You’ve been through so much crap, since that bloody awful Richard Brook affair.’

‘But…?’ prompted Sherlock.

‘But nothing. I just… if there’s anything else that you’ve, y’know, slipped back into while you were away, I won’t be angry. I won’t even be disappointed. I just hope you feel like you’d be able to tell me, as a friend or as a doctor… as somebody who’d be able to help.’

‘Sally Donovan have a little chat with you downstairs, did she?’

‘Sherlock. Just. Please tell me if you’re back on the cocaine.’

Sherlock didn’t look at him.

‘Sherlock!’

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock looked up, brightly. ‘That has to be Baker. That was quick – he’s really trawling for information about his lost property, isn’t he?’ He pulled the goose that John had spent five minutes carefully fitting into the fridge back out again. ‘We could have poor Wayne exonerated by tonight, at this rate.’ He offered John a slightly manic grin. ‘If you really wanted a little do-gooder project for this Christmas, you’ll find Horner a far more needy subject than I am.’

‘Sherlock.’

‘Come along, John! Nonchalance.’

Sherlock assumed a position in his armchair that could very easily have been the illustration for the Encycolpedia Brittanica’s definition of “nonchalance”.

John sighed, and went to open the door.

-x-

Henry Baker did, as Sherlock had anticipated, have a curiously large, round head. It was decorated with ruddy, wrinkled skin, a shock of wild, white hair and a nervous expression. He flapped and flustered his way up the stairs, and suddenly stopped stock still in the living room doorway, so that John accidentally bumped into his from behind.

‘Mister Holmes?’

‘Ah,’ smiled Sherlock, pleasantly, ‘Mr Baker, I presume.’

‘Bloody Hell.’ If possible, Baker flushed even pinker. ‘I never thought… Bloody Hell.’ He shuffled over, grabbed Sherlock’s hand in both of his and pumped enthusiastically. ‘Could I have your autograph? Or a picture? My students are going to Bloody love this! We’re doing you next term! Bloody Hell!’

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. ‘You lecture in Criminology? You don’t look like you teach Chemistry, certainly.’

‘English Literature. Doing a module on biographic works – thought we could put a twist on it and take a look at some popular biographical and autobiographical blogs…’

Sherlock still hadn’t managed to free his hand. ‘You’re studying me as a literary character?’

John just laughed quietly at the evil glare his friend sent him.

‘Oh, yes!’ Baker finally released Sherlock’s hand. ‘We’re comparing Dr Watson’s blog with Belle Du Jour.’

‘Belle Du Jour,’ repeated Sherlock, an overly friendly smile frozen on his face. ‘Well, I never.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Baker rubbed at his face. ‘Bloody Hell, I’m rambling now, aren’t I? I came because… well, there was an advert in Lost & Found…’

Sherlock pulled the spectacles out from behind a book. ‘Your glasses, Mr Baker’.

‘Oh, thank you!’ Baker put them on. ‘Oh, that’s better! I can see you now…’ Baker trailed off, finally spotting the goose on the kitchen counter. ‘Is that…? You didn’t find my goose, as well, did you?’

‘Yes, we did,’ replied Sherlock.

‘Oh!’ Baker beamed.

‘But, it was about to go on the turn,’ continued Sherlock, ‘so we cooked it. Took it over to a Homeless Shelter as a festive treat this afternoon – it was all very Christmassy.’

‘Oh.’ Baker deflated.

‘We got you a replacement, though,’ Sherlock added. ‘On the kitchen counter.’

‘Oh!’ Baker’s smile was back.

‘We kept the first goose’s feet and head and whatnot, if you want those too,’ said Sherlock.

‘Oh.’ Baker pulled a face. ‘Well… I suppose you do have your funny little ways – John here’s always amusing his readers with descriptions of bits and bobs turning up in the kitchen.’

‘You don’t want them, then?’

Baker laughed. ‘No, no, you keep them, if you think they’ll come in useful.’ He got to his feet. ‘May I…?’

Sherlock waved vaguely at the goose. ‘Sorry it’s not as big as the last one.’

‘Oh, no, this is fine, this is much better than I was ever expecting to get back after those bloody hooligans… well, I thought they’d run off with it. I didn’t know what I was going to tell Jean. Even if I could have afforded another one, Mike was all out – he orders them in advance, you see…’

‘Mike?’

‘At the Alpha. He runs Goose Club. That’s where I got the last one. Bloody good bloke. Looks after his regulars.’

‘You got it from the pub? I see.’

‘Yes – he’s actually the one who spotted your ad in the Chronicle – sent me packing over here as soon as I went in tonight.’ Baker hefted up the bird. ‘You know something, Sherlock? Mind if I call you Sherlock? Those papers are a bloody disgrace. Bloody hatchet job, they did on you, and for what? You’re one of the good ones – and I’m sure John here would agree with me, wouldn’t you John?’

‘One of the bloody best,’ chimed in John, with a faintly mocking grin.

‘You’ve bloody well saved my Christmas, you know that? This was my present for my wife. She’s always so embarrassed that we never host Christmas dinner, so I said to her this year, I said “don’t you worry, Jeannie, you invite your sisters over to us this year, I’ll get us a bloody feast.” Scrimped and saved to buy the stuff and then bloody well lost the main dish, bloody idiot. If it weren’t for you, my… ha! My goose would have been cooked! Haha! You can put that in your blog if you like, John!’

‘I might well do that, Henry.’ John snickered down into his tea cup.

‘Glad to have been of service,’ said Sherlock, making motions for Baker to leave. ‘Although, I can’t help thinking that no wife would choose a whole gaggle of geese over a husband who can be relied upon to come home to her after work, rather than spending all of what time and money he has at his local.’

Baker’s face crumpled a little. ‘What…?’

‘Perhaps the dinner isn’t the only reason Jean never feels that she can host for her family, and I’m not just talking about embarrassing dandruff issues during food preparation,’ added Sherlock. ‘I think John’s got some boring pamphlets about alcoholism about – it runs in his family.’ He snatched a leaflet off the fridge door. ‘Oh, there we go. Drug and alcohol dependency.’

‘But I…’

‘Happy Christmas, Mr Baker!’ Sherlock all but pushed Baker out of the door, goose and all.

‘But…’

Sherlock closed the door on him.

On the landing, Henry Baker stood shell-shocked for a moment. He uncrumpled the leaflet that had been shoved into his hand, noticing briefly that the section on cocaine addiction had been ringed in biro. He frowned up at the door.

‘But how,’ he muttered to himself, ‘did he know about Jeannie’s dandruff?’

-x-

‘Belle Du Jour,’ muttered Sherlock in distaste.

‘You can get rid of as many of those leaflets as you want, Sherlock, I’ll just keep replacing them.’

‘Belle Du Jour! I mean, Belle Du Jour. Are you happy, now? Your scribblings mean that my work is now being compared with that of a prostitute.’

‘A very high-class, educated, witty and charming prostitute.’

‘I’m the Crime-Whore, John, that’s what you’ve done to me.’

‘Does that make me your pimp?’ John smiled, brightly. ‘I’ve already got a cane – we could pop the diamond on the end, give me a fancy hat, Bob’s your uncle.’ He watched Sherlock as he irritably grabbed their coats. ‘Er, where do you think you’re going? You’re my ho, now!’

‘Pack it in.’ He flung John’s coat at him.

‘You’ll do what I tell you, Ho!’

Sherlock just glared at him. John cleared his throat.

‘Seriously though – where are we going?’

‘We are going,’ announced Sherlock, ‘to the pub.’


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Alpha Inn was a small, unassuming Old Man Pub on Wimpole St – the kind with a little telly in the corner that usually had racing or football on, with Quiz Nights on a Monday, a stock of the day’s papers and bar games at the back and a shelter in the tiny back yard where the customers would sit to quietly smoke and grumble. It was the sort of pub where, even though The Big Four-Oh had already had its way with John and was now giving Sherlock some increasingly threatening looks, John knew that they would still be addressed on entering as ‘Lads’. All the same, John was already making mental notes about coming back some time for a bit of peace and quiet, the next time his housemate was being utterly impossible.

The barman gave them a friendly nod as they approached the bar. ‘Evening, lads. What can I get you?’

‘Pint of bitter,’ breezed Sherlock, ‘and, er… what wines have you got?’

‘Nothing fancy, but I’ve got a lovely Beaujolais in.’

Sherlock smiled amiably. ‘Then, I shall have a large glass of lovely Beaujolais. Certainly hope it’s as nice as these geese you’re doing.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ sighed the barman. ‘Every year, someone shows up right before Christmas and asks if I’m still doing it. The posters are up all November. The first rule of Goose Club is, I need orders and final payment by December 7th. The second rule of Goose Club is, I need orders and final payment by December 7th. Third rule is, first deposits are non-refundable. I can’t just spirit them up out of nowhere, you know! I bulk order them early so I can pass the discount on to my customers…’

‘Yes, Mr Baker did say that you look after your regulars, Mike.’

Mike frowned for a moment, pushing their drinks in front of them. ‘Now, how did you…?’ The penny dropped. ‘Sherlock Holmes! Thought I recognised your face. Christ almighty, you gave the papers something to talk about, didn’t you? Henry was well excited when I said about your Lost & Found ad.’

‘Yes, well. It was quite a haul he’d dropped. Those were expensive specs.’

‘Yeah, and it’s not like he can afford those sorts of things any more.’

‘The drinking?’

‘I hope you’re not insinuating anything about me,’ said Mike. ‘I don’t egg him on to it, or anything. Half the time, it’s the other way round. It’s not just here he drinks – he’s always at it. At least here, I can keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t do himself too much of an injury.’

Sherlock shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. ‘I just couldn’t help but notice that he’s a drinker, that’s all. It’s sort-of what I do.’

‘Well. He’s got his problems, but he’s a good bloke, all in all. He was in a right old state when he came in here at lunchtime – not ‘coz of the lost specs, ‘coz of the goose. He’d got that for his missis, they were going to have a dinner party…’

‘And, so they shall, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

‘You found the goose as well?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘It had been out of a fridge for a while, mind, so we had to cook it ourselves. Replaced the bird for Henry, though.’

Mike exhaled. ‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

‘Good job you spotted the small ad so quickly, really.’

Mike shrugged. ‘He’s a mate. And he was so upset, his Christmas was ruined. He doesn’t really understand the internet, he’d have never thought to look online – hardly any effort for me to go through the local Lost & Found listings in the quiet period, was it, considering? If you ask me, you of all people coming across his things was the real stoke of luck – I mean, what are the chances?’

‘Well, I suppose the luck wasn’t completely one-sided. That goose – the one we had to eat… I say, “had to”…’

‘Good, aren’t they?’ grinned Mike.

‘I’ll say.’ Sherlock leaned in, conspiratorially. ‘My brother’s a bit of a coinnosseur – he’ll go absolutely green if I serve up something that good for Christmas dinner and then tell him I got it from a tip-off at a pub.’

Mike shared his sly smile. ‘I get them from Breckinridge Wholesale – down at Covent Garden. They’re a bit pricey, but it’s worth it, for Christmas. I don’t fancy your odds of getting anything from there tomorrow, though. Christmas Eve and all that.’

‘We’ll just have to take our chances.’

‘Ha! Well, good luck.’ Mike turned to another customer who had just gone up to the bar with a cheery ‘yes, mate’.

Sherlock and John slipped off into a quiet corner of the pub with their drinks.

‘So, what now?’ asked John.

‘Have our drinks,’ Sherlock told him, matter of factly. ‘Split a packet of crisps, if we’re feeling fancy. Trail’s gone cold now until Breckinridge's opens again in the morning. Neither Baker nor the landlord know anything about the loot. No lines of enquiry there.’

John took a sup of his pint.

‘We’re not really having Mycroft over for Christmas dinner, are we?’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘I can hardly see him sitting down at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table for a Sainsburys rack of lamb.’

‘No. I suppose.’ John looked over at the juke box – the kind of juke box, this being the sort of pub that it was, that almost certainly contained no songs whatsoever written prior to 1980. ‘I might put something Christmassy on. Any requests?’

‘Oh! There’s a nice recording of Reich’s Variations for Winds, Strings & Keyboards, by Edo De Waart and…’

‘Yeah. No. I’m pretty sure the Juke Box won’t have that. I’ll just put Rockin’ Robin on instead.’

-x-

Drinks at 221b, 25th Dec. 6pm onwards. Bring a bottle if you’re worried our own selection will be inferior. – SH

This is some sort of attempt at humour, I take it? – MH

I’d never dare attempt to tell you a joke. – SH

To what do I owe this alarming increase in sentimentality? – MH

It’s what Mother would have wanted? Besides, when’s the last time we spent Christmas together? – SH

The year before you took yourself on leave. The affair with Ms Adler. – MH

It wasn’t an affair. – SH

Don’t be obtuse. You know what I meant. I shall be busy until 7pm, but can take the time out of my schedule to join your soiree after that. – MH

You’d better not get me a jigsaw. – SH

And you had better not get me socks. – MH

-x-

John got up early on Christmas Eve. Sherlock had either got up before him or not gone to bed in the first place, and was sprawled on the sofa with his laptop, going over the reports that Donovan had sent over.

They were out of the flat and on their way to Covent Garden before 8. Dawn still hadn’t fully broken. Fairy lights twinkled at them through the inky half-light from shops and homes and street decorations all around. John pulled his coat a little tighter around himself as they rode in the cab.

‘There’s the Alastair Sim Christmas Carol on BBC2 this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We can iPlayer it tonight, if we get finished with this diamond case in time.’

‘I thought we were watching Die Hard tonight. We always watch Die Hard on Christmas Eve.’

‘Once. We only watched Die Hard the once.’

‘Well, we only had one Christmas Eve together.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Well, then.’

There was a pause. ‘Or,’ said John, ‘I think I’ve got the DVD of Scrooged somewhere. That’s like a modernised version of Christmas Carol.’

‘Urgh.’ Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Vulgar.’

-x-

Covent Garden Market was already bustling when they got there. Breckinridge’s wasn’t far from the West Piazza, but Sherlock insisted on going the long way around.

‘Looking to do some last minute shopping?’ John asked.

‘Hmm? Oh. No, I’m all done.’

They pushed through a gaggle of shoppers.

‘It’s the mime, isn’t it? You want to avoid the mime outside St Paul’s.’

‘Honestly, John. What are you blathering about?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with having a little phobia, Sherlock. Personally, I’m not fond of flamingos. I think their beaks are creepy.’

‘I am not Metamfiezomaiophobic.’

‘How do you just happen to know the proper term for an incredibly obscure phobia, then?’

‘Sorry – have we not met?’

John just laughed, and they fought the rest of their way to Breckinridge’s without further conversation.

-x-

‘Morning!’ Sherlock breezed through into the wholesaler’s with his usual aplomb. ‘Merry Christmas!’

A single, stressed looking cashier looked up from his stocktaking. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so. We were talking to Mike at the Alpha, last night – about his Goose Club? He said he was all sold out, but that he got the birds from you, and…’

The cashier pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Look, for the last time – we’re a wholesaler. We don’t sell to Joe Public.’

‘Please? We’d be willing to pay. It’s just that, well. Somebody…’ Sherlock put his arm around John, who sighed inwardly, all too used to this tactic, ‘forgot to tell me his sister and her family were coming tomorrow, and…’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! No. No, we sell in bulk, to tradesmen. Do you have any idea how much crap I had to put up with yesterday with the general public just marching in like this was Waitrose? And now this. Go to a bloody Supermarket like everybody else!’

Sherlock frowned. ‘You had a lot of enquiries yesterday?’

‘Yes, I…’ The cashier paused, then groaned and rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake. He sent you, didn’t he?’

‘Who?’ asked John.

‘You know bloody well who! Little ratty bloke, sniffing around all day yesterday, so I couldn’t get anything done. He’s finally had enough of me sending him off with a bee in his ear and sent you two inst… OI!!!’

Sherlock and John’s attention snapped over in the direction the cashier was pointing. A stack of crates partially shielded an ajar side window, but behind it they could all see a middle aged man reaching an arm through the window to try to push it open further. The man was small and had a very particular rat-like quality – from that and the cashier’s fury, John had no doubt that this was the man they’d just been discussing.

The man looked up, wild-eyed, saw that he’d been rumbled and darted out of view.

As one, Sherlock and John turned on their heels to sprint out after him. By the time they got around the building to the alley that the side window backed out onto, their quarry had already run out and was making his escape towards the crowd that had gathered around the street performer.

‘Just don’t look at it,’ huffed John as they ran towards the performance space, ‘it’s probably more frightened of you than you are of it.’

‘I am not scared of mimes!’

The mime aped the little ratty man’s run as he scrambled past, to the delight of the audience. As John and Sherlock approached, he started making a big show of playing an officious Police Constable, gallantly pointing the pursuers in the direction of the man fleeing them.

Which would have been fine, had he not made the mistake of patting Sherlock on the shoulder as he passed.

John’s sister had been scared of wasps all her life. It was exactly the same reaction as she had if one ever landed on her. Sherlock managed a very impressive Full Body Flinch With Flaily Arms – one of which hit the mime. The mime threw himself into the air in a theatrical pratfall, causing the audience to gasp, as if Sherlock had actually thrown him to the ground. They tried to follow the ratty man through the crowd on the other side, but several members of the audience stopped them.

‘It’s all right,’ John argued, ‘he’s just taken a dive.’

‘He’s getting away, John!’ Sherlock made another attempt to get through, but was blocked again.

‘Sorry,’ added John, pointing at Sherlock. ‘He’s scared of mimes.’

‘I am not scared of mimes! This is a criminal investigation – let us pass!’

The mime got up, sheepishly, and the crowd parted to let them through. Too slow, too little, too late. Covent Garden thronged, and the ratty man was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lost him,’ said John.

‘Hmm.’

‘Unless you’ve got some brilliant way of picking up his trail that I hadn’t even thought of.’

‘Not as such,’ replied Sherlock.

‘So, what now?’

Sherlock gazed across at John. ‘Breakfast.’


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock decided to eschew all of the fine cafes and restaurants around Covent Garden, and instead go back to Baker Street for breakfast at Speedy’s. John was in little doubt that their “breakfast” was actually a stakeout – the fact that Sherlock very carefully chose a table a few feet from the front window, grabbed a broadsheet newspaper and then stalked around the tables finding a particularly shiny sugar bowl to swap with theirs only confirmed this. He had to admit, he felt a little uncomfortable about performing a stakeout right next door to his own home.

‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked, looking at the menu.

Sherlock smiled. ‘Our quarry from Covent Garden.’

‘What – you think he’s going to come to us?’

‘He’s stupid and desperate enough to try to break in to an occupied building where he knows he’d be recognised. I know he’s going to come to us.’

There was a long pause. ‘So, why are you phobic of mimes?’

Sherlock glared at him. ‘Two words, John. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter – Mister Noseybonk.’

‘Oh!’ John frowned – the repressed horrific childhood memory rising up and gesticulating silently, terrifyingly at him. ‘Eurgh. Yes. Well, now I think I’m scared of mimes, now.’

-x-

Drinks. 221b. Tomorrow from 6pm. Greg Lestrade will be there. –SH

I know u owe me 1 but u really don’t have 2 find me a boyfriend u know x

Clearly I do, since left to your own devices, your taste in men is problematic to say the least. –SH

Ha bloody ha. Yes I’ll b there. Hope I’m not called out 2 the morgue again this year but that prob depends on ur girlfriends xx

Ha bloody ha. –SH

U spending the rest of the day w John? Xx

Yes. And Mrs Hudson. Mycroft will be coming tomorrow night, too, so be warned. –SH

That’ll b nice! Nice not to spend Xmas alone isn’t it xx

Stop saying “Nice” –SH

NICE NICE NICE SEE YOU TOMORROW NICE AND HAVE A NICE XMAS XXX

-x-

Breakfast turned into elevenses, which turned into an early lunch. John was just contemplating whether he could fit in yet another sandwich when Sherlock set down his fourth cup of coffee of the day and stared at the sugar bowl.

‘He’s here.’

John was in a position where he could see out through the window without looking too conspicuous. He looked out at the street beyond. The little ratty man was in the other side of the street, gazing at 221. After doing this for around 30 seconds, he then crossed the road and inspected the building a little closer up.

Sherlock pushed the newspaper over at John. ‘Interesting story in there, John.’ He got up, swiftly. ‘Just off to the loo.’

John picked up the paper. ‘Which page?’

‘Any page.’

And, Sherlock was gone.

John was just about able to duck down under the open newspaper before the ratty man anxiously entered the café.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the girl at the till.

‘Er,’ said the ratty man. ‘Would you mind if I just used your loo? I… I’ll buy something…’

‘It’s all right. It’s at the back, on the left.’

The ratty man scurried off. John peered at him from his table. He was just wondering whether following him would be the right thing to do, or whether the potential three-man punch-up in a tiny public toilet would just be too impossible to explain when Sherlock came back.

‘So, is this actually a stakeout,’ asked John, ‘or have you taken up cottaging in your spare time?’

‘He didn’t go to the toilet, John. As I suspected, he slipped through the window, climbed on a bin and is currently scaling the fence that leads to Mrs Hudson’s garden. He’ll break in either through 221c or, more likely, the ground floor flat.’

John got up. ‘What? Mrs Hudson. We’ve got to…’

Sherlock waved a hand. ‘I sent her on a little mission this morning. Told her my present for Molly had broken and I didn’t have time to get her another one. She’ll happily put in the hours scouring for a non-existent replacement vase, for Molly. Everyone loves Molly. Don’t worry, by the way. Molly’s present’s fine. It isn’t even a vase.’

‘That’s not what I was worried about. Sherlock – that creep’s breaking into Mrs Hudson’s bedroom!’

‘Wrong. He’s breaking into our flat, only because that’s on the top floors, he has to do so via Mrs Hudson’s bedroom. He won’t touch anything in there.’

‘But he’ll ransack our home.’

‘Well, he’ll try.’ Sherlock lead him out of the café.

The waited by the front door, in silence. Sherlock pressed his ear against it.

‘There,’ he whispered.

John pressed his ear against the door as well, and heard footsteps within. The person inside was rushed but trying to be quiet. John heard the familiar sound of the creaky step, and held his breath as the intruder climbed the stairs. There was another pause.

‘Trying to use a credit card on our door latch’, whispered Sherlock. ‘Here’s hoping he manages it – we’ve got Mrs Hudson’s window to replace as it is without adding a kicked-down front door.’ There was the sound of the upstairs door being kicked, and Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Oh, must you?’

‘Sherlock,’ whispered John, ‘what exactly are you planning on doing when he has broken into our flat?’

‘Talk to him.’

‘Talk to him. Right. And what if he doesn’t want to talk – what if he’s armed?’

‘He isn’t.’

‘You said he was desperate, earlier.’

‘He is. He’s also an absolute novice. Not suited to a life of crime at all.’

John heard the door finally give way after a series of frantic shunts and kicks.

‘Can we go after him now?’ he whispered, urgently, ‘before he destroys anything else of ours?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Sherlock quietly turned his key in the lock, and they crept, mindful as ever of the creaky step, up towards the bangs and clatters that were coming from their flat.

They slipped through the kicked-down door to flat b, unnoticed by the man going through their kitchen cupboards.

‘Anything in particular you’re looking for?’ Sherlock asked, ‘or are you just browsing today?’

The ratty man jumped, and turned to face them, horrified. He actually shrieked a little bit. John hadn’t heard a man properly shriek in ages. John sidestepped to grab a poker from the fireplace, which he proceeded to wield with his best silently menacing air between the intruder and the doorway.

‘Sir wouldn’t be looking,’ continued Sherlock, ‘for an 18lb white goose with a black bar on its tail, by any chance?’

‘I…’ said the ratty man. ‘I…’

‘Only, I’m afraid that that’s long gone. There was a little present inside it – can you believe that? A lovely, shiny blue bauble.’

The ratty man sounded as if he was about to swallow his own tongue.

‘They should have stuck a paper hat and a crap joke in it as well,’ added Sherlock, ‘then it would have been perfect.’

‘I…’

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ Sherlock leaned against his chair. ‘Put those things back in our cupboard would you, Mr Ryder? Or, can I just call you Nicholas?’

Nicholas Ryder put packets of pasta and tins of beans back into the kitchen cupboard with shaking hands. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Oh, come on now, Nicholas. You must know who I am. Otherwise why would you have broken in?’

‘Well… yes. You’re Sherlock Holmes. You were in the papers…’

‘Well, then.’

‘I…’ said Nicholas. Clearly, this was becoming quite the catchphrase of his.

‘You work for the Hotel Cosmopolitan – acting as Duchess’ personal valet during her stays in the penthouse.’ Sherlock gave him a brief, cold smile. ‘You suspected I had the diamond – tell me it had crossed your mind at least that I might want to do a little digging into where it had come from – read up on the police’s reports of the theft? Your eyewitness account was a very vivid painting, I must say.’

‘But…’ Nicholas stalled in the kitchen doorway. ‘But the police never took my photo for their reports…’

Sherlock sighed, wearily. ‘The Hotel Cosmopolitan has a Facebook page. You friended it, with your photo – in uniform, I noticed, very smart – as your avatar.’

Nicholas looked horribly lost and small, for a man who had just kicked their door down. ‘Oh.’

‘Let me paint another picture,’ said Sherlock, enjoying this far more than John was entirely sure was necessary. ‘You, for reasons I’m sure you’re about to divulge, had the Morcar Blue Diamond swallowed by a goose, which you then lost. You managed to trace it to Breckinridge’s, but stalled there. Nobody there would so much as hear you out. I imagine you made a break in attempt there last night, which failed, and tried your luck again this morning when you saw a side window had been left ajar. I doubt that you recognised me straight away – at the time I pursued you, you assumed I was just a concerned citizen. But you’d overheard me mention the Alpha Inn, so you went and asked there. That’s when you found out from Mike that I had picked up Henry Baker’s goose. You panicked, came straight over here, found it empty, and broke in to get back your ill gotten gains.’

‘I… it isn’t like that!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry – did you genuinely get lost looking for Speedy’s toilet?’

‘No! I mean. I don’t even want it any more! I just… I read about you. The stuff with that Moran bloke, and all the proof you uncovered about Richard Br… Moriarty. And if you could get to them, well. And then when I found out from him at the Alpha that you had the diamond, well, I knew you’d be able to trace it back to me. I just wanted to get rid of it.’

‘So, instead you decided to break in and negate my even having to trace the trail back to you. How thoughtful.’

‘I…’ Nicholas gazed down at the floor, miserably. ‘I was…’

‘Desperate?’ chipped in John.

Nicholas nodded.

‘You do realise,’ said Sherlock, ‘that you are, without a doubt, the most incompetant jewel thief I’ve ever crossed paths with, professionally? Somebody put you up to this. It wouldn’t have been your own idea.’

Nicholas stalled.

‘If you don’t tell me now, I’ll only find out anyway,’ Sherlock reminded him.

‘Cathy,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘She’s Duchess’ PA. Sort-of. Pretty low ranking, poor girl.’

‘You’re sleeping with her,’ said Sherlock.

‘How did…?’ Nicholas faltered, and looked down again. ‘Yeah. Dunno what she sees in me. It’s not even as if I get paid much. Mind you, neither does she. And Duchess has just got so much, she’s just dripping with money and jewels. All we wanted was a little bit of it. That diamond would have set us both up for life.’

‘What a sad story, Mr Ryder. I’ve got a sadder one, however. All about an innocent man, with a wife and two small children, who is facing a lengthy prison sentence simply for fixing a leak. You framed Wayne Horner.’

Nicholas’ shoulders shuddered with his deep exhale. ‘Yes. We knew if we just took it, we’d be the ones they’d suspect straight away. I’d seen Wayne around the hotel loads over the years – got chatting with him, we’d got pretty friendly. He mentioned about his convictions from when he was younger. So, when Duchess and most of her team were out, I mucked around with one of the radiators, caused a little leak that’d just take Wayne twenty minutes or so to fix. And as soon as he’d gone, I took the diamond.’

‘You set up one of your own mates.’ John shook his head.

‘Look, all we wanted was for the police’s eyes to go on to someone else while we got the diamond hidden and then made our escape. We thought the whole case against him would collapse, no harm done! But then, things started going pear shaped.’

‘I’d say that “going pear shaped” is quite the understatement, considering the loss of your entire haul,’ said Sherlock, ‘but go on.’

‘I kept the diamond on me until I could get away – I was almost having kittens, giving statements to the police with the bloody thing sellotaped to me under my uniform. I just… I had to get out of London, but I couldn’t leave the country yet, we weren’t off work til Christmas Day – I was worried they’d work out it was us too quickly. So I made the excuse that I had to visit my sister Maggie that evening – drop off Christmas presents for my nieces. She’s down in Sussex, you see. Manager of Oakshott Organic.’

‘A goose farm.’

‘Geese, ducks, turkeys, that sort of thing. I think those birds get better food and accommodation than a lot of people in London.’ Nicholas shook his head. ‘I got over there before she was done for the day. She had to get a bit of admin done, so she left me there, with the geese all waddling about, happy as Larry, no idea they were going to get killed for Christmas orders the next day. And that’s when I thought of it. Maggie always lets me have whichever Christmas bird I like, at a discount. So, I saw this one with the really distinctive bar on its tail, and… well, it took a bit if persuading, but...’

‘You fed the diamond to the goose.’

Nicholas closed his eyes, and nodded. ‘When Maggie came back, I asked if I could get my bird, while I was there, you know. She was surprised at how specific I was, but after a lot of chasing, we caught the one with the black bar, and she broke its neck. I took it home, feeling much better – nobody would look for the stone there, would they? Only, Cathy started getting antsy. She didn’t like that I’d taken my eye off the stone… well. Off the goose. Well. Off both, I suppose. So, yesterday she said she’d got in touch with someone who’d buy it off us, so we should open the goose up. And the bloody diamond wasn’t there.’ Nicholas rubbed his face in despair. ‘There’d been a second goose with a black bar on its tail. I’d got the wrong one. I phoned my sister, but she said that lot of geese had all gone off to Breckenridge’s in Covent Garden…’

‘…and there, your story meets ours.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Oh, dear, Nicholas. They say that crime doesn’t pay. I can testify that sometimes it does, but only when done well, and you really have done it terribly, terribly badly.’

‘I know.’ Nicholas was close to tears. ‘I’m not cut out for this, I never should have done it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. This was just a disaster from start to finish.’

He took a step towards Sherlock. John mirrored his step, brandishing the poker in warning. Not that it was entirely necessary, save to protect Sherlock’s jacket from getting damp.

‘Please, Mr Holmes. Please, help me! I’ll do anything I can to get Wayne out of trouble, I’ll never step out of line again, just please, God, help me!’

‘Oh dear, Nicholas.’ Sherlock got up, and walked over to a bookshelf.

‘What are you going to do?’ Nicholas asked. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’ Sherlock pulled a DVD from the bottom shelf. ‘I am going to sit down, and watch Die Hard, and eat all the coffee creams in our tin of Quality Street, because it’s Christmas Eve. And then, once the McClanes have been reunited & Al Powell has learned to kill again, I’ll contact the police, tell them about the diamond and the goose, and that I’ve traced its trail back to Oakshott Organic, and that although the manager of said establishment is clearly an innocent party, she’s also the sister of one Nicholas Ryder, the man left in charge of the hotel suite when the jewel went missing – a man who, from DNA evidence in the hair you just shed on my rug, broke in to 221b while we were out on the case to look for the jewel that I fortunately had on me at the time – a man who, it seems, has vanished from my radar, the clever swine.’

‘What?’ asked John.

‘What…?’ echoed Nicholas. ‘What does this mean?’

‘It means that, by Christmas night, the pop star will have her bauble back, the Horner children will have their father back, and, unless you manage to bungle your escape as badly as you did your great diamond heist, I never hear of you again. Ever. Because, if I do…’

Nicholas took a few faltering sidesteps towards the door. ‘You… really? You’d really give me a second chance?’

Sherlock plopped himself down into his chair. ‘Yippee-Ki-Yaye, Motherfucker. Now, get out.’

‘Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

‘Out!’


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Nicholas ran from the flat, speeding down the stairs, slipped and collided with the front door momentarily before darting through and slamming it shut behind him.

John threw the poker down. ‘Sherlock!’

‘What? Did you want some of the coffee creams, too?’

‘You’re letting him go. He just stole a diamond worth millions of pounds and framed his friend, and you’re letting him go?’

‘He’s just an idiot.’

‘You think everyone’s an idiot!’

‘John. He was in way over his head, and he knew it. He saw a shiny thing, thought he’d try taking it and didn’t think it through. He’s had a short, sharp shock that’s taught him a lesson far better than prison ever will.’

‘How do you know that for sure?’

‘Oh, come on, John. What do you think would happen if he did go to prison? Pick up criminal acquaintances – competent ones, at that. Learn tricks of the trade and leave the place bitter with no real job prospects. He’d turn back to theft, you mark my words. Sometimes, that’s unavoidable, but in this case, it’s not. Same goes for his accomplice. Even if she gets through this undetected, the hunt for Ryder will terrify her into never trying anything like that again.’

‘Sherlock, you are a detective. You’re not judge and jury, you don’t have the right to make that kind of decision…’

‘Don’t talk to me about rights, John. Or about a justice system so useless that Jim Moriarty could simply prance in to use and abuse it as he pleased.’

‘But you’re turning us into the criminals, here! We’re going to have to lie to the police…’

Sherlock snapped his gaze up to meet John’s, suddenly enraged. ‘Well, the police should have done their job properly! I may not be a judge – neither am I their Nanny. This was such a simple case, John! So easy. You could have cracked it, alone. Dimmock could have cracked it, for pity’s sake. They already had Donovan trying to tell them they had the wrong man before I’d even got involved. If they weren’t complete and utter workshy, unhearing, unseeing, braindead mouthbreathers, none of this would have happened. They’d have got their man and let an innocent one go, without my help. So, now they’re just going to have to make do with letting an innocent one go. I shan’t lose any sleep over it.’

John frowned, moving towards his own armchair. ‘Are you saying you have no sympathy for the department that were holding Horner because they should have listened to Sally Donovan?’

‘She is often right.’ Sherlock snuck a sideways glance at John. ‘Never about me, obviously. But in other cases, yes.’

John sunk into his chair, throwing up his hands. ‘That’s it. That’s one Christmas Miracle too far. I give in. You want to be all Season of Goodwill? Let’s do that.’

‘Was it not Ebenezer Scrooge himself,’ said Sherlock, picking up the Quality Street tin, ‘who said “Balls to it – it’s Christmas”?’

‘I am going to make you watch A Christmas Carol, Sherlock.’

Sherlock just laughed.

-x-

It was getting late. John was still out – that awful pop singer had insisted that at least one of them be present for the photo opportunity of giving Clarence his reward. Sherlock had no time for any of it, and John had conceded that it would be best for Sherlock to avoid the press as much as he could, this time around. Wayne Horner was free, cleared of all charges, which was the main thing. Sherlock had seen a sceptical glint in Greg’s eye when he’d explained the revised sequence of events, but the police on the whole had bought the story about Ryder going missing. He still hadn’t been caught. Maybe he’d escape. Maybe not. Sherlock had given him the best chance that he could.

He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

The banging from downstairs had stopped half an hour ago – Mrs Hudson’s bedroom window was now safely boarded up until the glaziers could come on the 27th. It would be a similar wait before anything could be done about their door, not that that really mattered. Their flat was always open to Mrs Hudson anyway, and the main door to the building was secure enough to suffice for a few days.

He got out two cups and saucers, and filled the teapot. Tea for two.

It had been an unusual, whimsical little case. Not his usual calibre, perhaps, but he hadn’t reached for the needle since the 22nd, and that was something, wasn’t it? Still. It was doing nothing to silence the voice. He’d hoped that keeping busy might do it. Clearly, he wasn’t keeping busy enough, or had been keeping busy with the wrong things, because it was still there, in his head, buzzing around, desperate for lips and a tongue, desperate to escape the confines of his mind.

He took the tea to the coffee table and sat down in John’s chair. He poured the tea, and waited for a man who wasn’t there to speak.

‘ _So this is what it’s come to_ ,’ came the voice, a low, mocking Irish drawl. ‘ _Returning lost property; wild goose chases; saving Christmas. Letting your quarry go when they turn on the waterworks. This is what you survived for, is it? You must be very proud_.’

‘It was singular,’ replied Sherlock, ‘and it was successful. Further to which, I made the Police look like idiots.’

‘ _It was childsplay_ ,’ retorted the voice. ‘ _You sleepwalked through the whole case – evidence practically just fell into your lap. You have no right to take the slightest bit of pride in this._ ’

‘So, this is why I’ve conjured you up, is it? This is your purpose – to provide critiques and marks out of ten at the end of every case?’

‘ _Sherlock. You know why I’m here._ ’

There was a pause. Sherlock sipped at his own tea, and watched the untouched teacup on the other side of the table.

‘ _They don’t have any style any more, do they, Sherlock? These criminals. Not like when it was you and me. Not even like when it was you and Moran. He was the last of my lot. And now, what are you going to do? You’ve taken all the red pieces off the board, but you’re still sitting around trying to play chess. That’s why I’m here… why you pretend I’m here. Without me, there can be no you. But you try to muddle on – no focus, no aim. Making tea. Making peace. Planning your Christmas party. Inviting your brother was an interesting move. Bringing him ever closer. Testing the waters_.’

‘I’m not looking for a replacement enemy in Mycroft.’

‘ _Aren’t you? You know he’ll put you away again if he sees you like this. Talking to oneself can be excused as an eccentricity. Projecting the personality of a dead psychotic to do so and making it cups of tea – that is actually mad, you do realise that. Maybe you actually want putting away – or the threat of it, at least. Something to fight. A cry for an aim – a cry for attention. Always so dramatic, Sherlock_.’

‘It’s not that bad. I can keep this hidden. I will keep it hidden. I’m simply adjusting. All of this will fade, in time. It always does.’

‘ _You’ll never keep this hidden. It’s not just Mycroft watching you now, is it? No, you had to go and get yourself some friends. How novel. I think it’s rather sweet how they’ve all managed to get everything round the wrong way – don’t you? The way they all assume it’s The Woman haunting you this Christmas, instead of little old me. The way they all assume you’re back on the coke, when it’s morphine you can’t stop dosing yourself up with. Just to take the edge off, eh? Just to take the edge of Sherlock Holmes when your mind starts spinning and sparking all over the place, with nothing now – nothing to work towards. No long game. No focus. Everything’s going fuzzy, now I’m not here. The lens has shifted. And you’ve gone fuzzy with it. You’ve gone soft_.’

‘Not soft. It’s not that. I’m opening doors to the world. New doors. Seeing new things.’

_You have gone. Soft._

A key in the lock. John. Sherlock took a moment to collect his self, by which time, John was already at the kicked-down door to the living room.

‘Evening, John.’

John nodded a greeting, frowning at the coffee table. ‘Another visitor?’

‘No.’

‘Sherlock. Why do you keep making two cups of tea?’

Sherlock smiled, brightly. ‘The other one’s for you.’

‘You’re in my chair.’

‘Hasn’t got your name on it.’

‘No, but it’s got my cushion on it.’

Sherlock switched chairs. ‘I didn’t think you’d be quite so precious about seating arrangements, but there you go. I take it the publicity stunt over handing back the diamond was suitably awful.’

‘Clarence was as pleased as punch,’ John told him, ‘so I’m not sure how pleased that made his daughter. Whatever one up from being pleased as punch is. He’s insisting on paying us. I wasn’t exactly quick to turn it down, this is the first paid case you’ll have had in…’ John stopped, and scratched at his neck, awkwardly. ‘Well, funds aren’t what they could be at the moment. Still, we’re two grand up, now. Not bad for a day’s work.’

‘Any word about Horner?’

‘Donovan turned up towards the end of the photo op. She’d driven him home. She said, the looks on his kids’ faces was… well, I suppose that’s the best reward, isn’t it? Oh. And.’ John pulled a small red envelope from his pocket. ‘She gave us this.’ He opened it up. Inside was a card with a picture of a sprig of holly on it. ‘”To John & Sherlock. Season’s Greetings. Sally D”.’

‘People keep writing your name first in cards, these days,’ grumbled Sherlock, quietly.

‘Took us a while, but we finally made Sally Donovan’s Christmas Card List,’ continued John, over him. ‘The miracles just don’t end.’ He stuck the card up along with the others. ‘I think, all in all, you’ve done pretty good today.’

Sherlock glared up at him. ‘I know I have, John!’

John cleared his throat. ‘Of course. Of course. So! Christmas Carol. Or Scrooged. Your choice.’

Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Two films in one day?’

‘Why not? It’s Christmas! Besides, it’s coming up to midnight now, so technically it’ll only be one film per day.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Sherlock checked his watch. ‘Nearly Christmas Day. Let’s do presents!’

John grinned, sitting down. ‘What is it with you and Christmas? You got some clever, Sherlocky reason for it exciting you, or do you just store up your peace and goodwill throughout the year and then have to vent it all every 25th of December?’

Sherlock got up. ‘I don’t have in-depth reasoning for all of the things that I like.’ He shrugged. ‘I just enjoy Christmas, and it’s good to be able to spend it at home, again. For two years, I didn’t think that that would be possible. Is that all right with you?’

‘Of course it’s all right.’ John blinked as Sherlock picked up his violin. ‘Sherlock, tell me you’re not giving me your violin as a present, because that would be getting into “the old man who sold his watch to buy his wife a hair comb” territory.’

‘Decided not to buy presents, this year,’ Sherlock explained. ‘I missed my violin, while I was away. Missed being able to play while I thought, so I played in my head. Composed. Painted London. Couldn’t write any of it down, but then Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are the only ones of you who can read sheet music competently, anyway…’

‘You wrote us all songs?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘One for each of you. Amongst other things… people… places. It was over two years. I missed my violin a lot.’

John gazed across at him. ‘That’s why you wanted everyone to come over tomorrow.’

‘These would be difficult presents to post, I’ll admit.’ Sherlock smiled. ‘Want to hear yours?’

‘Oh, yes. Please. God, this is probably the nicest present…’

‘You haven’t heard it yet, John. It might be rubbish.’ Sherlock readied his bow. ‘That was a joke. Obviously it won’t be rubbish. I wrote it, after all.’

John laughed. ‘It’s good to have you home.’

‘Shut up and listen to your present.’

THE END


End file.
